Ere noon was marked by the gnomon of the dial set up before the judges, Sir Tristram and his squire Governale rode up the lists, and were met by King Anguish and his knights. When Sir Tristram saw the King of Ireland he got swiftly from his horse and ran towards him, and would have held his stirrup; but the king leapt lightly from his horse, and with bright looks each embraced and kissed the other.

'My good lord,' cried Tristram, 'gramercy of your goodness which ye showed me in your marches, and of your nobleness in calling me unto your aid, for it is great honour to me that ye ask this, and I will do all for you to the utmost of my strength.'

'Ah, worshipful knight,' said the king, 'ye are courteous and noble beyond all others to come to my aid when I am in such dire need.'

'Who is he that is appointed to fight with you or your champion?' asked Sir Tristram.

'He is of Sir Lancelot's blood,' replied the king, 'and I wot that he will be hard to overcome, for all those of King Ban's kin are passing good fighters beyond all others. It is Sir Blamor de Ganis, a great warrior.'

'Sir,' said Sir Tristram, 'for the great goodness that ye showed to me in Ireland and for your daughter's sake, La Belle Isoude, I will take the battle in hand for you. But ye must first swear that ye never caused or consented to the death of the knight of which you are charged, and if I avail in your battle I will crave a boon of you which you shall grant me.'

'I swear to Heaven,' replied the king, 'that I did neither cause nor consent to the death of the knight; and as to the boon that ye shall ask, I grant it you already.'

Then King Anguish departed to the judges and cried unto them the name of his champion, and all the knights of the Round Table that were there, and the common people, were all agog to see Sir Tristram. The fame of his fight with Sir Marhaus, and his renown as a harpist and a lover of hunting, were well known unto all; but never yet had he come to the court of King Arthur.

Sir Blamor and Sir Tristram went to each end of the lists and dressed their harness and their shields. Sir Bleobaris, that was brother to Sir Blamor, went to him and said:

'Brother, now remember of what kin ye be, and what manner of man is our lord, Sir Lancelot, and see that ye suffer not shame. For never would Sir Lancelot bear it, and he would sooner suffer death.'

'Have no doubt of me,' said Sir Blamor, 'I shall never shame Sir Lancelot nor any of our high blood; nevertheless, this Sir Tristram is a passing good fighter, and if by ill hap he strike me down, then he shall slay me and so end my shame.'

'God speed you well,' said Sir Bleobaris, 'but he may not be so great a warrior as fame saith. For fame grows false as she goes further.'

When the knights were ready, the herald of the court of Arthur stood with his trumpet and recited the cause of the quarrel and the names of the knights about to do battle. Then, lifting his tabard, he bade both knights make ready; and when his tabard fell to the ground, the knights lowered their lances in the rests, set spurs to their horses, and thundered down the lists. With a clang and a crash they met midway, and then men marvelled as they saw how suddenly Sir Blamor's horse reared in mid-career, turned right round, and upsetting its rider over its back, fell to the ground. Sir Blamor, however, was unhurt, and quickly rising to his feet he drew out his sword, crying to Sir Tristram, as that knight turned his horse and came towards him:

'Alight thee, Sir Tristram, for though this mare's son of mine hath failed me, I trust my good sword shall not fail me.'

With that Sir Tristram alighted and dressed him to battle, and there they lashed at each other with mighty strokes on both sides, cutting and hacking, feinting and guarding, so that as time went on and still they fought fiercely, the kings and knights marvelled that they were so great-winded and strong.

Soon men saw that Sir Blamor was headstrong, and mad with rage, while Sir Tristram beat not so many false blows, but each was sure, though slower. Yet Sir Blamor would not rest, but like a wild man would ever dash against his enemy. Where they fought the trampled sand was stained with red from their wounds.

Suddenly men saw Sir Blamor make a heavy stroke which Sir Tristram avoided, and ere the other could recover, Sir Tristram's sword descended on his helm with so great a stroke that Sir Blamor fell upon his side. Sir Tristram leaped upon him and placed the point of his sword between the bars of Sir Blamor's vizor, bidding him yield.

When Sir Blamor got his breath he panted forth:

'Nay, nay, Sir Tristram, I will not say the word, but I require thee, Sir Tristram de Lyones, as thou art a noble knight and the mightiest that ever I found, that thou wilt slay me out of hand, for now I would not live to be made lord of these lands of Britain. Liefer I would die than live a life of shame, and therefore slay me! slay me!'

Sir Tristram started back, remembering of what noble blood was this brave knight. Knowing that he must either make Sir Blamor say the loth words 'I yield,' or else slay him, he went to where the judges sat, and kneeled before them and told them what Sir Blamor had said.

'Fair lords,' Sir Tristram ended, 'it were shame and pity that this noble knight should be slain, for ye well hear that he will not say the words of shame, and if King Anguish, whose true knight and champion I am, will suffer me, I will neither shame nor slay so stout-hearted a knight.'

'By Heaven,' said King Anguish, 'I will be ruled for your sake, Sir Tristram, as ye are the most knight of prowess that ever I saw in my long life. Therefore I pray these kings and judges that they take the matter into their own hands.'

The judges called Sir Bleobaris to them and required his counsel.

'My lords,' he said, 'though that my brother be beaten of body by this valiant knight, he hath not beaten his heart, and so I thank God he hath not been shamed in this fight. And rather than he be shamed,' said Sir Bleobaris, white and stern, 'I require that you command Sir Tristram to slay him out of hand!'

'That shall not be,' said the judges, 'for neither King Anguish nor Sir Tristram desire to shame your valiant brother.'

'We do not,' said both the king and Sir Tristram.

Therewith, by the advice of the judges, Sir Tristram and Sir Bleobaris took up Sir Blamor; and the two brothers made peace with King Anguish and kissed each other and swore friendship with him for ever. Then Sir Blamor and Sir Tristram kissed, and the two brothers, their hands clasping those of Sir Tristram, swore that there should for ever be peace and love between them; and this did Sir Tristram swear also.

Inasmuch as, of his nobleness and generosity, Sir Tristram would not take Sir Blamor's life because he refused to yield him, Sir Lancelot and all his kinsmen loved Sir Tristram, and were ever his friends and spoke well and knightly of him.

Then King Anguish and Sir Tristram took their leave and sailed into Ireland with great joy; and when they had arrived there, the king let make a great cry throughout his dominions, of the manner in which Sir Tristram had fought for him, and how for that deed he accounted him the noblest knight among his friends, and that all should treat him with friendship and no deceit.

When, also, the queen and the kin of Sir Marhaus heard how Sir Tristram had borne himself in the trial by combat, they agreed that now they should not seek to slay him, since his great help in this matter had wiped out his ill-doing in the slaying of Sir Marhaus.

So the queen and the knights of the court and the common people made much of Sir Tristram wheresoever he went; but the joy that La Belle Isoude had in her heart no tongue may tell. When Sir Tristram was led to her and they met after so long an absence from each other, men saw the lovely face light up with so sweet and high a look that they marvelled at her beauty. Yet they saw how straitly Sir Tristram held himself, and made not much of his meeting with her and did not seek her company.

Then on a day King Anguish asked Sir Tristram what was the boon he craved.

'But whatever it be,' said the king, 'it is yours without fail.'

Sir Tristram's face went hard and white, and after a little while he said:

'It is this, my lord. I bear a request from my uncle, King Mark, and it is that you give him your daughter La Belle Isoude for his wife, and ye let me take her unto him, for so I have promised him.'

'Alas,' said the king, and looked full heavily into the eyes of Sir Tristram, 'I had liefer than all the land that I have that ye should wed her yourself.'

Sir Tristram turned away, and made this reply:

'I have given my promise, and I were ashamed for ever in the world if I did aught else. I require you to hold to your promise, and to let your daughter depart with me to be wedded to my uncle, King Mark.'

'As I have promised, so will I do,' said the king. 'But I let you know 'tis with a heavy heart.'

Nor would the king say more, knowing that he might make bad worse. But the surprise and grief of La Belle Isoude, when she knew that Sir Tristram was to take her to be wife not unto himself but to a stranger, what tongue may tell and what words may say? Nightly, on the days when she was being prepared to depart, she wept full sorely in the arms of her mother or of Bragwine her faithful gentlewoman; but in hall or abroad she was ever calm and cold, though pale.

The queen, her mother, feared much of this marriage, and so sent a swift message to a great witch who dwelled in a dark wet valley in the midst of the Purple Hills, and for much gold a potent philtre was prepared. Then, on the day when, with much weeping and many sad farewells, La Belle Isoude with her gentlewomen and many noble ladies and knights were to go into the ship, the queen called Bragwine aside, and giving her a little golden flasket, said to her:

'Take this with thee, Bragwine, for I misdoubt this marriage overmuch, and I charge thee do this. On the day that King Mark shall wed my daughter, do thou mix this drink in their wine in equal parts, and then I undertake that each shall love the other alone all the days of their lives.'

Anon Sir Tristram and La Belle Isoude took ship and got to sea. During the voyage Sir Tristram kept himself much with the other knights and rarely sat with Isoude; for in his heart was much grief, and he hated the fair wind that drove the ship more quickly to the time when he must give up La Belle Isoude to his uncle. He knew now that he loved none other woman in the world but her, and never would so long as he should live.

Bragwine the maid, seeing the pensive looks of her mistress, and knowing the wretchedness of her heart, determined to give her mistress what she most desired. By the aid of Governale, the squire of Sir Tristram, they poured the philtre into the wine of Isoude and Sir Tristram as they were about to sit at dinner.

They thought that the philtre being so potent, it would cause Sir Tristram to do as King Anguish wished that he would do, and take La Belle Isoude into his own home at Lyones and wed her himself.

Sir Tristram and La Belle Isoude sat at dinner and drank the wine. In a little while Sir Tristram looked at the wine that was in his silver cup and smelled at it.

'Sure this is the best wine that ever I drank,' said he, and smiled at her.

'It is truly a most sweet and noble drink,' said Isoude, and her heart was glad to see him smile, who hitherto had kept his face so stern.

Sir Tristram called his squire.

'Governale,' said he, 'what wine is this thou hast given us this day? Let us have another flask of the same.'

Governale was ever ill at a deception, and began to stammer.

'My lord,' he said, 'I fear me there is none other.'

'Ah,' said his master, 'and where got you that?'

'The gentlewoman of my Lady Isoude,' said he, 'brought it and bade me mix it in your lordship's wine.'

'What?' cried Sir Tristram, rising angrily. 'What means this? What trickery is this?'

'Oh, my lord, forgive me,' cried Governale. 'But we saw the sorrow of both your hearts, and we gave you the philtre that was meant for my lady and King Mark, and—and—my lord, you will break my lady's heart and your own if ye suffer this.' But Sir Tristram would hear no further, and fiercely sent his squire from his presence.

'Ah, my lord,' said La Belle Isoude, 'have those two poor souls done more evil than we are doing by hiding our hearts from each other? I would have you know that no ease shall you have all the days of your life, for I know that you love me, and as to that, there is no living man in all this world that I love as I love you. If ye think it unmaidenly in me to say that—then my own wretched heart forgives me.'

The gentle sorrow in her voice caused Sir Tristram's heart to swell with rage because he had promised to take her to wed King Mark.

'Lady,' he said, and his face was full pitiful and pale, 'Heaven knows that ye say right, and that nevermore shall I have ease after this. But no more should I have ease, but rather more shame and remorse, if I should do what my heart bids me do. I gave my promise to mine uncle, madman that I was, and I must perform it, and suffer. But I could slay myself to think that you will suffer also.'

She saw the rage and sorrow in his eyes, and her heart was full of pity.

'Do thyself no harm, O noble knight and friend,' said Isoude, 'for thou art right, and I wrong. But I would have you promise to be my knight and champion in things both ill and good, while you shall have life.'

'Lady,' he replied, 'I will be all the days of my life your knight, in weal and in woe, to come to your aid and battle for your dear name, when you shall send for me.'

Sir Tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and quickly they parted, lest they should repent them of their duty.

That evening they got to shore, and landed at the foot of Tintagel, and Sir Tristram led up La Belle Isoude and gave her into the hands of King Mark, whose looks, for all that he tried to appear satisfied, were sour as he dwelt on the noble figure of Sir Tristram. Men noticed how pale and stern the young knight seemed, and that he said few words.

In a little while, after the wedding of his uncle to La Belle Isoude, Sir Tristram said farewell to all the court, 'for,' said he, 'he would go fight the pagans who were ravening in the north,' and so departed, with Governale his squire.

Afterwards, seeing the pale queen seated in hall beside King Mark, and remembering the heaviness of Sir Tristram, some guessed how full of woe was their parting, but for love and sorrow of Sir Tristram they said naught of what they thought.



VI

THE DEEDS OF SIR GERAINT

King Arthur was spending Whitsuntide at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and one day he hunted the stag in the forests that lay thereby. As he had given permission for his queen to go and see the hunting, she set out with one handmaiden, and rode in the misty dawning down to the river, and across the ford.

They climbed up the other bank, following the track of the men and horses which had formed the king's hunting party, until they stood on the edge of the dark forest, where the young leaves were fresh and sweetly green. The sun burst forth, and sucked up the mists along the meadow flats beside the river below them, and the water flashed and the birds sang.

'Here will we stay,' said the queen, who felt happy with the sunlight upon her, and the smell of the forest blowing out from the trees, 'and though we shall not see the killing, we shall hear the horns when they sound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to cry so eagerly.'

Suddenly they heard a rushing sound and the thud of hoofs behind them, and, turning, they saw a young man upon a hunter foal of mighty size. The rider was a fair-haired handsome youth, of princely mien, yet withal kindly of look and smile. A riding-robe and surcoat of satin were upon him, low-cut shoes of soft leather were on his feet, and in his girdle was a golden-hilted sword. A fillet of gold bound his curly hair, and a collar of gold, with a blue enamel swastika pendant, hung about his neck.

He checked his horse as he neared the queen, and it came towards her with step stately, swift and proud, and the rider bowed full low to Gwenevere.

'Heaven prosper thee, Sir Geraint,' she said. 'And its welcome be unto thee.'

'Heaven accord you long life and happiness, O queen,' replied Geraint.

'Why didst thou not go with my lord to hunt?' asked the queen.

'Because I knew not when he went,' said Geraint. 'But men told me in hall that you had gone out alone, and I came to crave permission to accompany and guard you.'

'Gramercy,' said the queen. 'Thy protection is very agreeable to me.'

As they stood talking, they heard the clatter of steel armour, and looking between the trees, they beheld a proud knight upon a war-horse of great size, wearing a heavy chain-mail jesseraunt, with coif and vizored helm, and his horse was also clothed in harness of chain mail.

Following him was a lady upon a beautiful white horse, which went with stately and proud steps along the forest way. The lady was clothed in a great robe of gold brocade, and her headcloth, of fine cambric, was turned so that her face was hidden. Behind them rode a little dark man, hairy and fierce of face, dressed as a page; and he sat on a great horse, strong and spirited, yet the dwarf held it well in hand. Hung to his saddle-bow was the knight's shield, but the device was hidden by a cloth, and two lances were fixed to the girdle of the dwarf. In his right fist the page carried a whip, long and heavy and knotted.

'Sir Geraint,' said Gwenevere, 'knowest thou the name of that tall knight?'

'I know him not, lady,' said Geraint, 'and his helm conceals his face, and his shield is also hidden. But I will go and ask the page, that you may learn his name.'

And Sir Geraint rode up to the dwarfish page.

'Who is yonder knight?' said Sir Geraint.

'I will not tell thee,' replied the dwarf, and scowled.

'Then I will ask him himself,' said Sir Geraint.

'That thou wilt not, by my head,' said the dwarf angrily, 'for thou art not of honour enough to speak to my lord.'

Geraint turned his horse's head to go towards the knight, whereupon the dwarf spurred forward and overtook him and lashed towards him with the long and knotted whip. The lash struck the mouth of Sir Geraint, and blood flowed, and dropped upon the silken scarf that he wore.

Instantly Sir Geraint turned, with sword half drawn, and the dwarf cowed and pulled back. But Sir Geraint thought it would be no vengeance to carve the dwarf's head from his shoulders, and to be attacked unarmed by the mail-clad knight.

He thrust his sword back with a clang into its scabbard, and rode towards the queen.

'Thou hast acted wisely and nobly, Sir Geraint,' said the queen, 'and I sorrow for the insult the craven knave hath placed upon thee.'

'Lady, I fear he was but copying his master,' said Geraint, whose eyes flashed with anger. 'But if your ladyship will permit me, I will follow this knight, and at last he will come to some town where I may get arms either as a loan or from a friend, and then will I avenge the insult which this stranger knight hath given to you, my queen and lady.'

'Go,' said Gwenevere, 'but I beg of thee, do not encounter with the knight until thou hast good arms, for he is a man almost as big as Sir Lancelot du Lake. And I shall be anxious concerning thee until thou dost return, or send tidings.'

'If I be alive,' said Sir Geraint, 'you shall hear tidings of me by to-morrow at evensong.'

Thus he departed. All that day Sir Geraint followed the knight and the lady and the page, keeping them in sight, though at a distance. Through the forest they went first, and thereafter the road ran along a ridge of high ground, with the great downs and combes falling and heaving below their feet, the sun flashing back from lakes and streams, the bees humming at the flowers in the grass, and the larks rising with thrilling song in the warm sweet air of the spring.

Sir Geraint loved it all, but he kept his eyes ever on the knight, who flashed as he moved far before him. At length he saw the towers of a high castle, and beneath it the red roofs of a little town nestling at the foot of the grey walls. They rode into the town, and as the haughty knight passed through it the people in the booths and cabins and those beside the way saluted him. He did not acknowledge any of their greetings, but looked before him proudly, as he had done when he rode through the solitary paths of the wilderness.

Sir Geraint looked about him as he rode behind, to see if there was any armourer or knightly person whom he knew, but there was none. When he saw the knight and the lady and the dwarf enter the castle, and was sure that they would sojourn there, he rode about the little town, and found it full of knights and squires, with armourers and others cleaning arms, sharpening swords and repairing harness. But no one did he know of whom to beg a suit of armour and a lance.

Then he took his way to a little stream beneath the wall of the town, and on the other side he saw a manor-house, old and ruinous, standing amidst tall weeds. And thinking he might get lodging there for that night, he forded the river and went towards the manor. He saw that the hall-door yawned open, and that a marble bridge led up to it, over a wide ditch full of stagnant water and thick with green weeds and rushes.

On the bridge sat an old and reverend man in clothes that once had been rich, but now were thin and tattered. And Geraint thought it was not possible that so poor a place could help him in what he desired. He looked steadfastly at the old man.

'Young sir,' said the latter, 'why art thou so thoughtful?'

'I was thinking, fair sir,' said Geraint, 'whether thou couldst give me lodging here for this night.'

'Of a surety,' said the old man, rising. 'It is poor we are, but such as can be given shall be of our best.'

He led Sir Geraint into the hall, which was bleak and desolate, and the hearthstone in the centre was thick with last year's leaves, as if it had been long since fire had flickered upon it. On the wall there hung rusty weapons and helms, and through the cracks there crept the ivy from the outer wall. The horse was tethered in the hall by the old man.

Then he led Sir Geraint to a door upon the dais, and ushered him into the bower, and there he saw an old decrepit woman, sweet of look though thin and peaked. She rose from the cushion on which she sat, greeting him kindly, and he saw that the satin garments upon her were also old and tattered. Yet Sir Geraint thought she must have been a lovely woman in her happy youth.

Beside her was a maiden, upon whom was a vest and robe poor and thin, and the veil of her headcloth was old though clean. Yet truly, thought Geraint, he had never seen a lovelier maiden, nor one with more sweetness and grace in her smile or gentleness in her voice. And the heart of him stirred with pity to see her so pale and wan, as if she fared but poorly.

'Welcome, fair sir,' said the old dame. 'This is my daughter Enid, who will gladly prepare food for you.'

When food had been prepared they sat down, and Geraint was placed between the white-haired man and his wife, and the maiden served them.

Afterwards, as they drank weak mead from cups of earthenware, they spoke together; and Geraint asked whose was the manor in which they sat.

'Mine,' said the old man, 'for I built it. And the castle up there and the town were also mine.'

'Alas!' said Geraint, 'how is it you and yours have lost them?'

'For my sins and my greed,' said the old man sadly, 'and bitterly have I repented me of my wrong. I am Earl Inewl, but I have lost the lands that made my earldom. For I have a nephew, whom his father, on his deathbed, gave into my keeping, with all his lands. And I added his possessions to my own, and when the boy was a man he demanded them of me, and I would not give them up. So he made war upon me, and took everything from me except this ruined hall and one poor farm.'

'Since you are sorry for the greed that hath ruined you,' replied Geraint, 'I will do what I may to regain your possessions, if God gives me life. But first I would ask, why went that knight and the lady and the dwarf just now into the town, and why is there so much furbishing of arms there?'

'The preparations are for the jousting that is to be held to-morrow's morn in the level meadow beside the ford,' responded the old earl. 'And the prize is to be a falcon of pure gold. The knight thou sawest has won the falcon two years running, and if he wins it this time he will have it for his own, and will win the title of the Knight of the Golden Falcon. And to gain it from him all those knights in the town will essay. And with each will go the lady that he loveth best, and if a man takes not his lady with him he may not enter the lists.'

'Sir,' said Sir Geraint, 'I would willingly have to do with that knight, for he hath, by the hands of his dwarf page, most evilly insulted the queen of my dear lord, King Arthur; but I have no armour.'

'As for that,' said the old man, 'I have arms here that will fit thee; but if thou hast no maiden with thee, thou canst not do battle.'

'If, sir,' replied Sir Geraint, 'you and this maiden, your daughter, will permit me to challenge for her, I will engage, if I escape alive from the tournament, to be the maiden's knight while I shall live.'

'What say you, daughter?' said the old earl.

'Indeed, sir,' replied the maiden, gently flushing, 'I am in your hands. And if this fair knight will have it so, he may challenge for me.'

This said Enid to hide her true thoughts; for indeed she felt that she had never before seen as noble a youth as Geraint, or one for whom her thoughts were so kind.

'Then so shall it be,' said Earl Inewl.

On the morrow, ere it was dawn, they arose and arrayed themselves; and at break of day they were in the meadow. Before the seat of the young earl, who was Inewl's nephew, there was set up a post, and on it was the figure of a gyr-falcon, of pure gold, and marvellously wrought, with wings outspread and talons astretch, as if it were about to strike its prey.

Then the knight whom Geraint had followed entered the field with his lady, and when he had made proclamation, he bade her go and fetch the falcon from its place, 'for,' said he, 'thou art the fairest of women, and, if any deny it, by force will I defend the fame of thy beauty and thy gentleness and nobleness.'

'Touch not the falcon!' cried Geraint, 'for here is a maiden who is fairer, and more noble, and more gentle, and who has a better claim to it than any.'

The stranger knight looked keenly at Geraint, and in a haughty voice cried:

'I know not who thou art; but if thou art worthy to bear arms against me, come forward.'

Geraint mounted his horse, and when he rode to the end of the meadow laughter rippled and rang from the people watching him. For he bore an old and rusty suit of armour that was of an ancient pattern, and the joints of which gaped here and there. And none knew who he was, for his shield was bare.

But when, thundering together, the two knights had each broken several lances upon the shield of the other, the people eyed Sir Geraint with some regard. When it seemed that the proud knight was the better jouster, the earl and his people shouted, and Inewl and Enid had sad looks.

'Pity it is,' said Enid, 'that our young knight hath but that old gaping armour. For when they clash together, I feel the cruel point of the proud knight's spear as if it were in my heart.'

'Fear not, my dear,' said the old dame, her mother. 'I feel that him you have learned to love so soon is worthy a good maiden's love, and I think that his good knighthood will overcome the other's pride.'

Then the old knight went to Geraint.

'O young chief!' he said, 'since all other lances break in thy strong young hand, take you this. It was the lance I had on the day when I received knighthood. It was made by the wizard smith who lives in the Hill of Ithel, and it hath never failed me.'

Then Sir Geraint took the lance and thanked the old earl, and looked back to where stood Enid. And his heart leaped to see how proud and calm she stood, though her lips trembled as she smiled at him.

With that the strength seemed to course like a mountain stream through all his body; and from the uttermost end of the meadow he pricked his horse and rushed towards the proud knight. His blow was so mighty, and the good lance so strong, that the shield of the proud knight was cleft in twain, and he was thrust far beyond his horse and fell crashing to the ground.

Then Geraint leaped from his horse and drew his sword, and the other rising to his feet, they dashed together with the fury of wild bulls; and so battled long and sore until the sweat and blood obscured their sight. Once, when the proud knight had struck Sir Geraint a mighty blow, the young knight saw, as he fought, how the maid Enid stood with clasped hands and a pale face of terror, as if she feared for his life.

With the sight of the maiden's dread and the memory of the insult done by the proud knight to Queen Gwenevere, Sir Geraint waxed both fiercer and stronger; and gathering all his might in one blow, he beat with his sword upon the crown of the knight's helm, and so fierce was it that the headpiece broke and the sword-blade cut to the bone.

Straightway the knight fell down upon his knees and craved mercy.

'Why should I give mercy to one so full of pride and arrogance?' said Sir Geraint. 'Thou, through thy servant, hast shamefully insulted the queen of my lord, King Arthur.'

'Fair knight,' cried the other, 'I confess it, and I give up my overbearing henceforth, and I crave for mercy. And if ye give me my life, I will be your man and do your behest.'

'I will give thee mercy on one condition,' said Geraint, 'which is that thou and thy lady and thy dwarf page go instantly and yield yourselves into the hands of the queen, and claim atonement for your insult. And whatsoever my lady the queen determines, that shall ye suffer. Tell me who art thou?'

'I am Sir Edern of the Needlands,' replied the other. 'And who art thou, sir knight,' he asked, 'for never have I met so valiant and good a knight of his hands as thou art.'

'I am Geraint of Cornwall,' said the young knight.

'It giveth comfort to me to know that I am overcome by so noble a knight,' said the other. Then he got upon his horse, all wounded as he was, and with his lady and the page beside him took his way sadly to Arthur's court.

Then the young earl rose and came to Sir Geraint, and asked him to stay with him at his castle, for he loved all knights of great prowess and would have them to talk to him.

'Nay, I will not,' said Sir Geraint coldly; 'I will go where I was last night.'

'Have your will, sir knight,' replied the young earl courteously. 'But I will ask Earl Inewl to permit me to furnish his manor as it should be furnished for your honour and ease.'

Sir Geraint went back to the manor, conversing with Earl Inewl and his wife, and with the maiden Enid.

When they reached the house, they found it full of the servants of the earl, who were sweeping the hall and laying straw therein, with tables and benches as were suitable, and soon a great fire leaped and crackled on the stone in the centre. Then when Sir Geraint's wound had been washed and salved and bound, and he had placed upon himself his walking attire, the chamberlain of the young earl came to him and asked him to go into the hall to eat. Sir Geraint asked where was Earl Inewl and his wife and daughter.

'They are in the bower putting on robes which my lord the earl hath sent, more befitting their station and your honour,' said the earl's chamberlain.

Sir Geraint liked it not that the maiden should be dressed in robes given by the man who had stripped her father of all his wealth, and he said coldly:

'I would that the damsel do not array herself, except in the vest and veil she hath worn till now. And those she should wear,' he said, 'until she come to the court of Arthur, where the queen shall clothe her in garments fitting for her.'

It was so done, and the maiden sat in her poor robes while the other knights and ladies in the young earl's company glittered and shone in satin and jewels. But she cared not for this, because Sir Geraint had bidden her.

When meat was done and mead was served, they all began to talk, and the young earl invited Sir Geraint to visit him next day.

'It may not be,' said Sir Geraint; 'I will go to the court of my lord Arthur with this maiden, for I will not rest while Earl Inewl and his dame and daughter go in poverty and rags and trouble. And it is for this I will see my lord, so that something may be done to give them maintenance befitting their station.'

Then, because the young earl admired Sir Geraint for his knightly strength, his nobility of manner and his prowess, there was sorrow in his heart for the old Earl Inewl.

'Ah, Sir Geraint,' he said, 'I am sorry if your heart is sore because of my kinsman's poor condition; and if you will give me your friendship, I will abide by your counsel and do what you think I should do of right.'

'I thank thee, fair sir,' said Geraint, 'and I will ask ye to restore unto the Earl Inewl all the possessions that were rightly his, and what he should have received up to this day.'

'That I will gladly do for your sake,' said the young earl.

Thus it was agreed; and such of the men in the hall who held lands which rightly belonged to Earl Inewl came and knelt before him and did homage to him. And next morning the lands and homesteads and all other his possessions were returned to Earl Inewl, to the last seed-pearl.

Thereafter Sir Geraint prepared to return to the court of King Arthur, and the Earl Inewl came to him with the maiden Enid, whose gentle face went pale and red by turns. Putting her hand in the hand of Sir Geraint, the old man said:

'Fair sir, your pursuit of that knight, Sir Edern, and your revenge for his insult, I shall bless until the last day of my life. For you have done more goodness and justice than I can ever repay you. But if this my daughter, for whom ye fought yesterday, is pleasing unto you, then take her for your wife, with the blessing of myself and my countess.'

Sir Geraint clasped the hand of the young maiden, and said:

'My lord, I thank thee, and if my lord King Arthur shall give this maiden unto me for wife, then will I love her and cherish her all the days of my life, if she in her heart would choose me for her husband.'

'My lord,' said the maiden, raising her frank eyes and flushing face to him, 'I have never known a knight to whom I gave so great goodwill as I find in my heart for thee. And if thy lord Arthur shall give me unto thee, I will plight thee my love and loving service till I die.'

Thereupon they proceeded on their way to the court of King Arthur, and what had seemed a long journey to Geraint when he had followed Sir Edern, now seemed too short, for he and the maid Enid passed it in much pleasant converse.

Towards evening they arrived at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and Queen Gwenevere received Sir Geraint with great welcome, calling him 'her glorious knight and champion,' and telling him that Sir Edern had yielded himself into her hands to do such atonement as seemed fitting, when he should have recovered from his wounds.

At the beauty of the maid Enid all the court marvelled; and the queen hastened to clothe her in robes of satin, rich and rare, with gold upon her hair and about her throat. And when she was so dressed, all were glad that one of so sweet a dignity and rare a beauty had come among them.

King Arthur gave her to Sir Geraint with many rich gifts, and Enid and Geraint were married in the abbey church, and the court gave itself up to feasting and sport, and acclaimed her one of the three most lovely ladies in all the isle of Britain.

When a year had passed in great happiness, ambassadors came from King Erbin of Cornwall, with a request to King Arthur that he should let Sir Geraint go home to his father.

'For,' said the messengers, 'King Erbin waxes old and feeble, and the more he ageth the more insolent and daring are the barons and lords on his marches, trying to wrest parts of his lands to add to their own. Therefore,' said they, 'the king begs you to let his son Sir Geraint return home, so that, knowing the fame of the strength of his arm and his prowess, the turbulent lords would desist, and if they would not, Sir Geraint would hurl them from his boundaries.'

King Arthur, though very reluctant to let so great an ornament of his court depart, let him go, and Geraint and Enid went with a great party of the best knights of the Round Table, and rode to the Severn Shore, and there took ship to the shores of Cornwall.

When they reached there, all the people came from their villages welcoming Sir Geraint and his lovely bride, for the fame of his prowess, and the way in which he had won his wife, had spread over all the land. And King Erbin welcomed his son and was glad of his coming, and the next day all the chief subjects, the lords and barons holding land or offices, and the chief tenants of common degree, came into the hall, and, kneeling before Sir Geraint, did honour to him and swore fealty.

Then, with a great company of his chief warriors, Sir Geraint visited all the bounds of his territory. Experienced guides went with him, and old men learned in the marks of the boundaries, and priests, and they renewed the mere-marks that were broken down, and replaced those which had been wrongfully moved.

Thereafter men lived peacefully in the land, and on all the borders, for under the shadow of the strong young chief no border lords dared to invade the land, and no fierce baron used oppression.

Then, as had been his wont at the court of Arthur, Sir Geraint went to all tournaments that were held within easy reach of his kingdom. Thus he became acquainted with every mighty knight of his hands throughout the lands of Cornwall, Wales and Logres; and so great in strength and prowess did he become that men hailed him as one of the Three Great Heroes of the Isle of Britain; the other two being Sir Lancelot du Lake and Sir Tristram of Lyones. And though there Were other great and valiant warriors, as Sir Lamorake, Sir Bors, Sir Gawaine and his brother, Sir Gareth, and Sir Palomides, yet all these had been overcome by one or other of the three heroes. For as yet Sir Perceval was in the forest with his widowed mother, and knew no arms but a stone or a stick; and Sir Galahad was not yet born. And these two were knights stainless of pride or any evil desire, and by that force alone did strike down every arm, however mighty, that relied on knightly prowess alone.

When his fame had spread over all the kingdoms south of Trent, so that no knight that knew him or saw the device of the golden falcon on his shield would have to do with him, Sir Geraint began to seek ease and pleasure, for there was no one who would joust with him. He began to stay at home and never went beyond his wife's bower-chamber, but sat and delighted in playing chess, or hearing the bards of the court sing songs of glamour and wizardry, or tell him tales of ancient warriors and lovers, long since dead.

The whole court marvelled at his slothfulness as time passed and he changed not. He gave up the friendship of his nobles, and went not hunting or hawking; and found no pleasure but in the company of his wife, whom he dearly loved.

Men began to scoff and jeer at his name over their cups in hall, or as they rode with hawk on fist to the hunting, or as they tilted in the lists. And the lawless lords upon the marches of the land began to stir and to dare, and when none came to punish them, their plunderings and oppressions grew.

Soon these things came to the ears of the old King Erbin, and great heaviness was upon him. And he called the Lady Enid to him one day, and with stern sorrow in his eyes spoke thus:

'Fair woman, is it thou that hast turned my son's spirit into water? Is it thy love that hath made his name a byword among those who should love him because he is not as he once was—a man no one could meet in arms and overcome? Is it thou that hath sunk him in slothfulness, so that the wolfish lords and tyrant barons upon his marchlands begin to creep out of their castleholds, and tear and maim his people and wrest from them and him broad lands and fertile fields?'

'Nay, lord, nay,' said Enid, and he knew from the tears in her brave eyes that she spoke the truth. 'It is not I, by my confession unto Heaven! I know not what hath come to my dear lord. But there is nothing more hateful to me than his unknightly sloth! And I know not what I may do. For it is not harder, lord, to know what men say of my dear husband, than to have to tell him, and see the shame in the eyes of him I love.'

And Enid went away weeping sorely.

The next morning, when Enid awoke from sleep, she sat up and looked at Geraint sleeping. The sun was shining through the windows, and lay upon her husband. And she gazed upon his marvellous beauty, and the great muscles of his arms and breast, and tears filled her eyes as she leaned over him.

'Alas,' she said half aloud, 'am I the cause that this strength, this noble and manly beauty have all lost the fame they once enjoyed? Am I the cause that he hath sunk in sloth, and men scoff at his name and his strength?'

And the words were heard by Geraint, and he felt the scalding tears fall upon his breast, and he lay appearing to be asleep, yet he was awake. A great rage burned in him, so that for some moments he knew not what to do or say.

Then he opened his eyes as if he had heard and felt nothing, and in his eyes was a hard gleam. He rose and swiftly dressed, and called his squire.

'Go,' he said to the man, 'prepare my destrier, and get old armour and a shield with no device thereon, old and rusty. And say naught to none.'

'And do thou,' he said to his wife, 'rise and apparel thyself, and cause thy horse to be prepared, and do thou wear the oldest riding-robe thou hast. And thou wilt come with me.'

So Enid arose and clothed herself in her meanest garments.

Then Geraint went to his father and said, 'Sir, I am going upon a quest into the land of Logres, and I do not know when I may return. Do thou therefore keep our kingdom till I return.'

'I will do so, my son,' said Erbin, 'but thou art not strong enough to go through the land of Logres alone. Wilt thou not have a company with thee?'

'But one person shall go with me,' said Geraint, 'and that is a woman. Farewell.'

Then he put on the old and rusty suit of armour, and took the shield with no device, and a sword and a lance, and then mounting his horse he took his way out of the town. And Enid went before him on her palfrey, marvelling what all this might mean.

Geraint called unto her and said sternly:

'Go thou and ride a long way before me. And whatever ye see or hear concerning me, say naught, and turn not back. And unless I speak to thee, speak not thou to me.'

All day they rode thus, and deeper and deeper they sank into a desolate land, where huge rocks jutted from the starved soil, and there was no sound or sight of living thing, except it was the wolf looking from his lair beneath a stone, or the breaking of a branch, as the brown bear on a distant hillslope tore at a tree to get a honeycomb, and blinked down at them, marvelling, maybe, to see a knight and a lady in his desolate domain.

When, late in the afternoon, their long shadows marched before them down a broad green road which they had struck upon, Enid's heart suddenly lifted to see the white walls and roofs of what looked like a rich town; for she knew not what was in her lord's mind, and feared lest his strange anger should push him to go on through the night, and so become a prey to robbers or wild animals. But she marvelled that there was no sight or sound of people; no carters or travellers going to or coming from the city, and no smoke rose above the housetops.

When they came nearer, she saw the wall of the gate was broken down, and that along the broad road beyond the wall the grass waved high across the street, and the little wooden booths and cabins beside the road were rotting and decayed. Anon they rode into a broad market-place or forum, where white buildings rose above them, the windows gaping, grass growing on the roofs or in the crannies of the walls, and the doorways choked with bushes. And out of the broad hallway of the basilica she saw the grey form of a wolf walk and slink away in the shadows.

With a sinking heart she knew that this was one of the fair cities which the Romans had built, and when they had left Britain this town had been deserted and left desolate, to become a place where the wolf and the bear made their lairs, where the beaver built his dam in the stream beneath the wall of the palace, and where robbers and wild men lay hid, or the small people of the hills came and made their magic and weaved their spells, with the aid of the spirits haunting the desolate hearths of the Romans.

And as Enid checked her horse and waited for Geraint to come up, that she might ask him whether it was his pleasure to pass the night there, she saw, down the wide street before her, the forms of men, creeping and gathering in the gloom. Then, fearing lest they should fall upon her husband before he was aware of them, she turned her horse and rode towards him and said:

'Lord, dost thou see the wild men which gather in the shadows there in the street before us, as if they would attack thee?'

Geraint lifted up his angry eyes to hers:

'Thou wert bid to keep silent,' he said, 'whatsoever thou hast seen or heard. Why dost thou warn one whom thou dost despise?'

Even as he spoke, from the broken houses through which they had crept to assail the single knight, dashed ten robbers, naked of feet, evil of look, clothed in skins. One leaped at the knight with a knife in his hand, to be cut down, halfway in his spring, by Sir Geraint's fierce sword-stroke. Then, while Enid stood apart, terror in her heart, prayer on her lips, she saw him as if he were in the midst of a pack of tearing wolves, and in the silent street with its twilight was the sudden clash of steel, the howls and cries of wounded men.

Then she was aware that six lay quiet on the road, and the remaining four broke suddenly away towards the shelter of the houses. But two of these Sir Geraint pursued, and cut down before they could reach cover.

He rejoined her in silence and sought for a place of lodging; and in a small villa they found a room with but one door. Here they supped from the scrip of food and the bottle of wine which Enid had brought, and there they slept that night.

On the morrow they pursued their way, and followed the green road out of the ruined city until they reached the forest. And in the heat and brightness of the high noon the green and coolness of the forestways were sweet, and the sound of tiny streams hidden beneath the leaves was refreshing.

Then they came upon a plain where was a village surrounded by a bank of earth, on which was a palisade. And there was a wailing and weeping coming from between the little mud-cabins therein; and as they approached they saw in the middle green four knights in armour and a crowd of poor frightened folk about them.

As they passed the gate of the village a poor man ran from the group, and threw himself before Sir Geraint.

'O sir knight,' he cried full piteously, 'if thou art a good knight and a brave, do thou see justice done here. For these four lords would cut my father's throat if he say not where his money is hid.'

'Are they his proper lords?' asked Geraint.

'Nay, sir knight,' said the man. 'Our land is Geraint's, and these lords say that he sleeps all day, and so they will be our masters. And they do ever oppress us with fine and tax and torture.'

Therewith Sir Geraint rode through the gate of the village and approached the group. He saw where the four knights stood cruelly torturing a poor old man whom they had tied to a post, and the sweat stood upon the peasant's white face, and the fear of death was in his eyes.

'Lords! lords,' he cried in a spent voice, 'I have no money, for you did take all I had when you told us our lord Geraint was become a court fool.'

'Thou miser!' jeered one of the knights, 'that was two months agone, and thou hast something more by now. Will this loose thy secret, carrion?'

At the cruel torture the man shrieked aloud, and by reason of the pain his head sank and he slid down the post in a swoon. And a young woman rushed forth, threw her arm about the hanging body, and with flashing eyes turned and defied the knights.

Next moment it would have gone ill with her, but the voice of Sir Geraint rang out.

'Ho, there, sir knights,' he cried, 'or sir wolves—I know not which ye are—have ye naught to do but to squeeze poor peasants of mean savings?'

The knights turned in rage, and laughed and sneered when they saw but one solitary knight in old and rusty armour.

'Ah, sir scarecrow!' cried one, leaping on his horse, 'I will spit thee for thy insolence.'

'Knock him down and truss him up with this starveling peasant,' cried another.

All now had mounted, and the first prepared to run at Sir Geraint, who backed his horse through the gateway into the open plain. Anon the first knight came, hurling himself angrily upon him. But deftly Sir Geraint struck the other's lance aside with his sword, and as the rider rushed past him, he rose in his stirrups, his blade flashed, and then sank in the neck of the felon knight, who swayed in his saddle and then crashed to the ground.

Then the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. But Sir Geraint couched his lance, and caught the other on the edge of his shield, and the spear passed through his body.

And by good hap also he slew the other two, one with his lance, the other with his sword on foot.

Enid, full of fear while the fight was raging, felt gladness and sorrow when she saw how nobly her husband had smitten these torturers with justice, and she said that of a truth she had been wrong, and that there was no sloth in his heart, no weakness in the strong arm of her lord.

Then Sir Geraint took off the armour from each of the four knights and piled them on their horses, and tied them together, and bade her drive them before her.

'And do thou go forward some way,' said he sternly, 'and say not one word to me unless I speak first unto thee.'

As he mounted his horse, the man that had been tortured came forward with his people and knelt before him, and kissed the mail-clad shoe in his stirrup, and in rude few words they thanked him tearfully, asking for his name, so that they could speak of him in their prayers.

'I am called Sir Slothful,' said Sir Geraint, 'and I deserve not your worship. But, hark ye, if other evil lords come upon these marches and seek to oppress thee, tell them that though Sir Geraint sleeps now, he will soon awake and they shall not stand before his vengeance.'

And so he rode on, leaving the poor folks marvelling but happy.

Then in a little while they came upon a highroad, and the lady went on first, and for all his anger, Geraint was sorry to see how much trouble Enid had in driving the four horses before her, yet how patient she was.

Soon they beheld a wide valley below them, the fairest and richest in homesteads and farms that they had yet seen. A river ran through the middle of it, and the road on which they passed ran down to a bridge over the river, beyond which was a castle and a walled town.

Sir Geraint took the road towards the bridge, and soon a knight came cantering towards them.

'Fair sir,' said Sir Geraint, 'canst thou tell me who is the owner of this fair valley and that walled city?'

'Of a truth,' said the other, 'these are the lands of King Griffith, whom men call the Little King. He holds them of King Erbin, whose son, that was so famous, men say has become a worthless court dandy.'

'I thank thee for thy words, fair sir,' said Geraint, and would pass on.

'I would counsel thee not to attempt to cross the bridge,' said the knight, 'unless thou dost intend to fight the little king. For armed strangers he will not suffer to pass, and I doubt me if thy arms are of much use to thee.'

And the knight smiled at the rusty arms and shield of Sir Geraint.

'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'though my arms are old, I will go this way.'

'If thou dost so,' said the knight, 'thou wilt meet with shame and defeat. For the little king is a man of giant strength.'

But Sir Geraint passed down towards the bridge and crossed it, and went along the road beyond towards the town. Presently Sir Geraint heard the sound of hoofs behind him, and looking round he saw a knight following him upon a great black horse, tall and stately and stepping proudly. The knight was the smallest that Sir Geraint had ever seen.

When the stranger had come up to him, he said:

'Tell me, fair sir, is it by presumption or by ignorance that thou comest armed along this road?'

'I knew not that in any of the lands of King Erbin, a peaceful man, though he be armed, could not go without hindrance,' replied Sir Geraint.

'That was so,' replied the knight, 'when King Erbin's son Sir Geraint was a man of prowess, not a soft fool. Then his name alone kept his borders clean of robber lords and bandit knights; but now that he is less than naught, I myself must keep my land clean of thieves in rusty armour that would frighten and oppress poor folk.'

'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'I will travel by this road, and ye hinder me at your peril.'

'Have at thee, then,' said the little knight, and together they spurred towards each other.

Sir Geraint marvelled to feel how powerful were the lance-strokes of the little man, while, as for himself, so high was the little knight's horse and so small was the rider, that he was hardly able to get a good blow at him. But they jousted until at the third bout the little king's lance broke short, and then they dismounted, and lashed at each other with their swords.

At first Sir Geraint thought it was nigh unseemly that one so strong and tall as himself should have to do with so small a knight; but if he thought that he had advantage in his longer reach and greater strength he quickly saw his error.

For the little king was a man of marvellous strength and agility, and for all Sir Geraint's knowledge and strength, the other's strokes were so boldly fierce, so quick and powerful, that it was not long ere Sir Geraint found he had need of great wariness.

Soon their helmets were cracked and their shields dented and carved and their hauberks in rags, and hardly could they see between the bars of their vizors for the sweat and blood in their eyes.

Then at last Sir Geraint, enraged that one so small should give him so much trouble to conquer, gathered all his strength in one blow, so that the little king was beaten to his knees, and the sword flew from his hand ten yards away.

'I yield me!' cried King Griffith, 'and never have I fought with so valiant and strong a knight. Have mercy and spare me, and I will be thy man.'

'Be it so!' said Sir Geraint, 'but thou hast already sworn to be my man.'

And he lifted up his vizor and showed his face, whereat the little king did off his own helm quickly and came and kneeled humbly before him.

'Sir Geraint,' he said, 'forgive me my words concerning thee, but men told me that ye had forgotten that you had once been so glorious a man, and were softening to a fool.'

'Nay,' said Sir Geraint, 'they were the fools that said so. And now I will depart, for I see these marches are in safe keeping in your hands, fair king.'

But the little king wished Geraint to come to his castle to be rested and healed of his wounds, and Geraint and Enid went and abode there a few days. But ever Sir Geraint was cold and stern to his wife, for he was still angry at her disbelief in him.

Sir Geraint would not stay longer, though his wounds were but half healed, and on the third day he commanded Enid to mount her horse and to go before him with the four other horses.

While the sun climbed up the sky they rode through the wilderness, by tangled woods, deep valleys and quaking marshes, until they reached a deep dark forest. Suddenly as they rode they heard a great wailing of distress, and bidding Enid stay, Geraint dashed through the trees towards the crying, and came out upon a great bare upland, and beside the wood were a knight, dead in his armour, and two horses, one with a woman's saddle upon it.

And looking further Geraint saw three small dark shaggy trolls making swift way up the hill towards a great green mound, and in the arms of one of them was a damsel, who shrieked as she was borne away.

Fiercely Sir Geraint spurred his horse up the slope, bidding the trolls to stop, but they only ran with an exceeding great swiftness. But he pursued them, and when they were within a few steps of a small door in the hillside, the one dropped the maiden, and the three of them turned at bay. And the damsel ran shrieking away down the hill.

The trolls had dark thin faces, with curly black hair and fierce black eyes, and their rage was horrible to see. They were lightly clothed in skins, and in their arms they held, one a bar of iron, another a great club, and the third a long sharp stick.

Sir Geraint commended his soul to Heaven, for he knew he was to battle with evil dwarfs who lived in the hollow hills, and whose strength was greater than any man's, and whose powers of wizardry were stronger than Merlin's.

He dashed with his lance at the one with the iron bar, but the hill-troll slipped away, and brought the great bar with a heavy blow upon his lance, so that it snapped in twain. Then one leaped like a wild cat upon the arm that held the rein, but happily Sir Geraint had drawn his sword, and with one stroke slew him. Then the two others leaped towards him, but the blows of the bar and club he caught upon his shield and slew the troll with the club.

Ere Sir Geraint could draw his sword back from this blow, he felt his horse fall under him, for the dwarf with the iron bar had with one blow broken the beast's back. Quickly avoiding the horse, Sir Geraint dashed at the dwarf, who ran towards the hole in the hill, but ere he could reach it Sir Geraint gave him a blow on the crown of his head, so fierce and hard, that the skull was split to the shoulders.

So then Sir Geraint turned and walked slowly down the hill, for he was dazed, and his old wounds had broken afresh. But he came to where Enid stood comforting the damsel mourning over the dead knight, and when he was there, straightway he fell down lifeless.

Enid shrieked with the anguish of the thought that he was dead, and came and knelt beside him and undid his helm and kissed him many times. And the sound of her wailing reached an earl named Madoc, who was passing with a company along the road from a plundering expedition, and he came and took up Geraint and the dead knight, and laid them in the hollow of their shields, and with the damsels took them to his castle a mile along the road.

Now the earl was a tyrant and a robber, and had done much evil on the borderlands of Geraint, in burning, plundering and slaying, since he had heard that Geraint was become soft and foolish. And he had recognised Sir Geraint while he lay in the swoon, and rejoiced that now he was like to die.

As he rode along he thought that if he could prevail upon the Lady Enid to wed him, he might get much land with her, as the widow of the dead Sir Geraint, future King of Cornwall. And he determined to make her marry him.

When, therefore, he and his host had reached his castle, he ordered the dead knight to be buried, but Sir Geraint he commanded to be laid in his shield on a litter-couch in front of the high table in the hall. So that Sir Geraint should die, he commanded that no leech should be sent for.

While his knights and men-at-arms sat down to dine, Earl Madoc came to Enid and begged her to make good cheer. But, thinking to gain more from secrecy, he did not tell her that he knew who she was, nor did he show her that he knew who was her lord.

'Take off thy travelling clothes, fair lady,' he said, 'and weep not for this dead knight.'

'I will not,' she said, and hung over Geraint, chafing his hands and looking earnestly into his pallid face.

'Ah, lady,' the earl said, 'be not so sorrowful. For he is now dead, and therefore ye need no longer mourn. But as ye are beautiful, I would wed thee, and thou shalt have this earldom and myself and much wealth and all these men to serve thee.'

'I tell you I will rather die with my dead lord, if indeed he be dead,' cried Enid, 'than live in wealth with you or any one.'

'Come, then,' said the earl, 'and at least take food with me.'

'Nay, I will not,' said Enid, 'and never more will I eat or be joyful in life.'

'But, by Heaven, thou shalt,' said Madoc, furious at her resistance to his will.

And he drew her from beside the litter, and forced her to come to the table where his knights sat eating, and commanded her to eat.

'I will not eat,' she cried, straining from his hold towards where Geraint lay, 'unless my dear lord shall eat also.'

'But he is dead already, thou mad woman,' cried the earl. 'Drink this goblet of wine,' he commanded, 'and thou wilt change thy mind.'

'I will not drink again until my dear lord drink also,' said Enid, and strove to free herself from the grasp of the earl.

'Now, by Heaven!' said Madoc wrathfully, 'I have tried gentle means with thee. Let this teach thee that I am not to be baulked of my will.'

With that he gave her a violent blow on the ear, and tried to drag her away out of the hall. And Enid shrieked and wept and cried for help, but none of the knights that sat there dared to oppose their lord.

But suddenly men started up from their seats in terror to see the corpse of Geraint rise from the hollow of the shield. Enid's cries had roused him from his swoon, and his hand as he raised himself felt the hilt of the sword beside him.

He leaped from the litter, and, drawing his sword, he ran towards the earl, who by now had almost dragged Enid to the door. Raising the sword, Geraint struck him with so fierce a blow that he cleft his head in twain.

Then, for terror at seeing what they thought was a dead man rise up to slay them, the knights ran from the hall and left Geraint and Enid alone.

Enid threw her arms about Geraint, her face bright with happiness.

'My dear lord, I thank God thou art not dead, as this man said thou wert. And I pray thy forgiveness for doubting that thou hadst forgotten thy manhood, for of a truth none is so brave, so good as thou art.'

Geraint kissed his wife, smiling wanly the while.

'Sorry I am, my dear wife,' he said, 'that I was swooning when thou hadst need of me. And as for any doubts thou hadst of me, why, let us both forget them from this time forth. And now we must away, ere this lord's men recover their fright and pursue us.'

Enid led him instantly to the stalls where she had seen the horses had been led, and Geraint took the spear and the horse of the knight whom the trolls had slain, and, when he had mounted, he took up Enid from the ground and placed her before him.

Thus they rode out of the castle, and away as rapidly as they could. And now that they were reconciled, much joyful and loving talk was between them.

But night was coming on, and Geraint was weak from his wounds and loss of blood, and Enid was full of trouble for the pain her husband suffered. She prayed fervently that soon they might reach a town where she could obtain help for him.

Suddenly she heard far away in the distance the tramp of horses, and Enid could have wept for sorrow. But she kept her face calm, though her lips trembled, Geraint also heard the beat of the hoofs, and turning in his saddle he looked up, and saw on the skyline of the narrow road the glint of spears between them and the sky.

'Dear wife,' he said, with a faint brave smile, 'I hear some one following us. I will put thee in hiding behind this thicket, and should they slay me, do thou make thy way homeward to my father Erbin, and bid him avenge my death.'

'O my dear Geraint!' said Enid, sobbing, for all her bravery, as she thought that he would surely be slain, and that, after all their trouble, they were not to be allowed to enjoy the happiness of their reconciliation. 'I would liefer die with thee, my dear, dear lord. Let them kill us both, if it is to be.'

'Nay, dear wife,' said Geraint, 'I would not have thee slain. Revenge my death if they slay me.'

So, with many lingering kisses, he set her down upon the road, and saw her hide in the thickets.

By now the gloom of evening had settled upon them, and the sound of trampling horses had rapidly approached. And painfully, by reason of his stiff wounds, Geraint dressed his armour as best he could, and laid spear in rest, and drew his shield before him, and so waited in the dark road.

He heard a single knight riding before the others, and soon saw his figure issue from the gloom with couched lance. And Sir Geraint made him ready also, resolved to sell his life dearly at the last.

But as they began to spur their horses, there came the voice of Enid from the hedgerow beside them. And she cried out piteously in the dark:

'O chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?'

The stranger stopped his horse, and called out:

'O Heaven, is it my lord, Sir Geraint?'

'Yes, in truth,' said Enid, 'and who art thou?'

'I am the little king!' said the other, and rode swiftly towards Sir Geraint. Then he leaped from his horse and came to the stirrup of his chief.

'My lord,' he said, 'I learned that thou wert in trouble, and came to see if I could aid thee.'

And Enid ran forward with joy at hearing this, and welcomed the little king, and told him in what a hard pass was Sir Geraint.

'My lord and my lady,' said Griffith, 'I thank Heaven sincerely for the favour that I come to you in your need. I learned of thy fight with the trolls and of thy slaying of Earl Madoc, and that thou wert wounded. Therefore I rode on to find thee.'

'I thank thee heartily,' said Sir Geraint, 'and my dear wife also thanks thee. For of a truth I am spent, and must needs get me rest and a leech for my wounds.'

'Then come at once with me,' said the little king, and after he had helped Enid to her place before Geraint, he leaped on his own horse.

'Now thou shalt go to the hall of a son-in-law of my sister which is near here,' said King Griffith, 'and thou shalt have the best medical advice in the kingdom.'

At the hall of the baron, whose name was Tewder, and a most knightly and gentle lord, Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid were received with great welcome and hospitality. Physicians were sent for, and they attended Geraint day by day until he was quite well again.

The fame of his adventures began to spread along the borders of his kingdom, and at length reached his own court. And the robber lords and brigands of the marches, hearing of his deeds, ceased their evil-doing and made haste to hide from his wrath. Also his father Erbin and the host at his court repented of their hard thoughts and sneers concerning him, and praised the strength of his arm, the gentleness of his courtesy, and his justice and mercy.

When Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid returned home, all the people gathered to welcome them. And thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and his warlike fame and splendour lasted with renown and honour and love, both to him and to the Lady Enid, from that time forth.



VII

HOW SIR PERCEVAL WAS TAUGHT CHIVALRY, AND ENDED THE EVIL WROUGHT BY SIR BALIN'S DOLOROUS STROKE

It befell upon a time when King Arthur was Pendragon, or overlord of the island of Britain, that Earl Evroc held an earldom of large dominion in the north under King Uriens. And the earl had seven sons, the last being but a child still at play about his mother's chair as she sat with her maidens in the bower.

Lord Evroc was a valiant and a mighty warrior, ever battling against the hated pagans, when their bands of blue-eyed fierce fighters landed on his coasts. And when peace was on the land, he went about on errantry, jousting in tournaments and fighting champions.

His six elder sons did likewise, and all were famed for their knightly prowess.

But the mother sat at home, sad of mood. For she hated war, and would rather have had her lord and her six tall sons about her in the home. And in her heart she resolved that she would plead with Evroc to let her have her little son Perceval to be a clerk or a learned bard, so that he should stay at home with her and run no risk of death.

The sorrow she was ever dreading smote her at length. For a messenger came one day, saying that Earl Evroc her lord had been slain at Bamborough, in a mighty melee between some of the best and most valiant knights of Logres and Alban, and two tall sons with him.

As the years passed, and her little son began to run, three black days came within a little of each other, for on these days messengers came with the sad news of the death of her other boys. One of them had been done to death by an evil troll on the lonely wastes by the Roman wall, two others were slain by the shores of Humber, repelling a horde of fair-haired Saxon raiders, and the other was killed at a ford, where he had kept at bay six bandit knights that would have pursued and slain his wounded lord.

Then, in her grief, the widow dame resolved that she would fly with her little son, and make a home for him in some wilderness, where never sounds or sights of war or death would come, where knights would be unknown, and no one would speak to him of arms and battles. And thus did she do, and she left the hall where she had lived, and removed to the deserts and wastes of the wilderness, and took with her only her women, and a few boys and spiritless men, too old or feeble to fight, or to think of fighting.

Thus she reared the only son left to her, teaching him all manner of nobleness in thought and action and in learning, but never suffering him to see a weapon, nor to hear a tale of war or knightly prowess.

He grew up loving all noble things, gentle of speech and bearing, but quick to anger at evil or mean actions, merciful of weak things, and full of pity and tenderness.

Yet was he also very strong of body, fleet of foot, quick of eye and hand. Daily he went to divert himself in the great dark forest that climbed the high mountains beside his home, or he roamed the wide rolling moors. And he practised much with the throwing of stones and sticks, so that with a stick he could hit a small mark at a great distance, and with a sharp stone he could cut down a sapling at one blow.

One day he saw a flock of his mother's goats in the forest, and near them stood two hinds. The boy wondered greatly to see the two deer which had no horns, while the goats had two each; and he thought they had long run wild, and had lost their horns in that way. He thought he would please his mother if he caught them, so that they should not escape again. And by his great activity and swiftness he ran the two deer down till they were spent, and then he took them and shut them up in the goat-house in the forest.

Going home, he told his mother and her servants what he had done, and they went to see, and marvelled that he could catch such fleet creatures as the wild red deer.

Once he overheard his mother say that she yearned for fresh venison, but that the hunter who was attached to her house was lying wounded by a wild boar. Always Perceval had wondered what the little dark man did whom they called the hunter, who was always so secret, so that Perceval could never see where he went or when he returned from the forest.

So he went to the hut where Tod the hunter lay sick, and charged him by the love and worship he bore to the countess, that he should tell him how he could obtain fresh venison. And the dwarf told him.

Then Perceval took a few sticks of stout wood, with points hardened by fire, and went into the forest as Tod had told him, and seeing a deer he hurled a stick at it and slew it. And then he brought it home.

The countess was greatly wroth that Tod had taught him how to slay, and she said that never more should the dwarf serve her. And Tod wept, but when he was well again the countess would not suffer him to stay, but said he should leave the hall and never come there again.

She commanded Perceval never to slay any more living things, and the lad promised. But hard was it to keep his word, when he was in the forest and saw the wild things passing through the brakes.

Once, as he strayed deep in the wood, he came upon a wide glade or laund, with two green hillocks in the middle thereof. And feeding upon the grass was a great buck, and it had a silver ring round its neck. Perceval wondered at this beast being thus adorned, and went up to it to stroke it.

But the buck was fierce, and would have gored him with its horns, but Perceval seized them, and after a great struggle he threw the animal, and held it down, and in his wrath he would have slain it with a sharp stick. With that a swarm of little angry trolls poured from the hollow hillocks with great cries, and seizing Perceval would have hurt him.

But suddenly Tod ran among them, and commanded them to release him. And in the end Tod, who came himself of the troll folk, made the little people pass the words of peace and friendship with Perceval, and ever after that the boy went with the trolls, and sported with them in wrestling, running and other games; and he learned many things of great wisdom from them concerning the secrets of the earth and air and the wind, and the spirits that haunt waste places and standing stones, and how to put to naught the power of witches and wizards.

Tod ever bade them treat the young lord with reverence. 'For this is he who shall do great deeds,' he said. 'He shall be a stainless knight, who shall gain from evil the greatest strength, and, if God wills, he shall beat down the evil powers in this land.'

But the lad knew not what he meant, though he was very content to have the trolls for his friends.

One day Perceval was in the forest far up the mountain, and he looked over the blue distance far below across the moor, and saw a man riding on a wide road which he had never noticed before. And the man rode very fast, and as he went the sun seemed to flash from him as if he was clothed in glass. Perceval wondered what he was, and resolved to go across the moor to the road he had seen.

When he reached the road he found it was very broad, and banked on either side, and went straight as the flight of a wild duck right across the moor, and never swerved by the hills or pools, but went over everything in its way. And as he stood marvelling what mighty men had builded it, he heard a strange rattling sound behind him, and, turning, he saw three men on horseback, and the sun shone from them as he had seen it shine from the first horseman.

The foremost checked his horse beside Perceval, and said:

'Tell me, good soul, sawest thou a knight pass this way either this day or yesterday?'

'I know not what a knight is,' answered Perceval.

'Such a one as I,' said the horseman, smiling good-naturedly, for it was Sir Owen, one of King Arthur's knights.

'If ye will tell me what I ask, I will tell you,' said Perceval.



'I will answer gladly,' said Sir Owen, smiling, yet wondering at the fearless and noble air of this youth in so wild a waste.

'What is this?' asked Perceval, and pulled the skirt of the hauberk.

'It is a dress made of rings of steel,' answered Sir Owen, 'which I put on to turn the swords of those I fight.'

'And what is it to fight?'

'What strange youth art thou?' asked Sir Owen. 'To fight is to do battle with spears or swords, so that you would slay the man that would slay you.'

'Ah, as I would have slain the buck that would have gored me,' said Perceval, nodding his head.

Many other questions the youth asked eagerly, as to the arms they bore and the accoutrements and their uses. And at length he said:

'Sirs, I thank you for your courtesy. Go forward swiftly, for I saw such a one as ye go by here but two hours ago, and he flashed in the sun as he rode swiftly. And now I will be as one of you.'

Perceval went swiftly back to his mother's house and found her among her women.

'Mother,' he said, 'I have seen a great and wonderful sight on the great road across the moor.'

'Ah, my dear son, what was that?' she asked.

'They were three honourable knights,' he said. 'And, mother, I will be a knight also.'

With a great shriek his mother swooned away, and the women turned him from the room and said he had slain his mother.

Much grieved was Perceval that he had hurt his mother, and so, taking his store of pointed sticks, he went off into the forest, and strayed there a long time, torn between his love for his mother, and the strange restlessness which the sight of the three warriors had caused in him.

As he wandered, troubled, his quick ear caught the clang of metal, though he knew not what it was. And swiftly he ran towards the sound a long way, until he came into a clearing, and found two knights on horseback doing mighty battle. One bore a red shield and the other a green one.

He looked eagerly at this strange sight, and the blood sang in his veins. And then he saw that the green knight was of slighter frame than the other, and was weakening before the strokes of the red knight.

Full of anger at the sight, Perceval launched one of his hard-wood javelins at the red knight. With such force did it go, and so true was the aim, that it pierced the coif of the knight, and entered between the neck and the head, and the red knight swayed and then clattered to the ground, dead.

The green knight came and thanked Perceval for thus saving his life.

'Are knights then so easy to slay?' asked the lad. 'Methought that none might pierce through the hauberk of a knight, and I sorrow that I have slain him, not thinking what I did.'

'He was a full evil knight,' said the other, 'and deserved death richly for his many villainies and oppressions of weak orphans and friendless widows.'

The knight took the body of the dead knight to be buried in a chapel, and told Perceval he could have the horse. But the lad would not have it, though he longed greatly to possess it, and the green knight took it with him.

Then Perceval went home, sad, yet wild with wonder at what he had done. He found his mother well again, but very sorrowful. And for fear of giving her pain, he did not tell her of the knight he had slain.

She called him to her, and said:

'Dear son of mine, it seems I may not keep thy fate from thee. The blood of thy warlike generations before thee may not be quenched, whatever fond and foolish plans I made to keep thee from knowledge of battle and weapons. Dear son, dost thou desire to ride forth into the world?'

'Yes, mother, of a truth,' said Perceval. 'I shall not be happy more until I go.'

'Go forward, then,' she said weeping, 'and God be with thee, my dear son. And as I have no man who is strong of his hands, thou must go alone, yet will I give thee gold for thy proper garnishing and lodging. But make all the haste ye may to the court of King Arthur at Caerleon-upon-Usk, for there are the best and the boldest and the most worshipful of knights. And the king will give thee knighthood. And wherever thou seest a church, go kneel and repeat thy prayers therein; and if thou hearest an outcry, go quickly and defend the weak, the poor and the unprotected. And be ever tender towards women, my son, and remember that thy mother loves thee and prays for thy stay in health and life. And come thou to see me within a little while.'

And he thanked her, saying he would do naught that should shame her, but would remember all the nobleness of her teaching; also, that he would return to see her within a little while.

Perceval went to the stable and took a bony, piebald horse, which seemed the strongest, and he pressed a pallet of straw into the semblance of a saddle, and with pieces of leather and wood he imitated the trappings he had seen on the horses of the knights.

Then, after taking leave of his mother, he rode forth, sad at first for leaving her in sorrow and tears, but afterwards glad that now he was going into the world to become a knight. And for armour he had a rough jerkin, old and moth-eaten, and for arms he had a handful of sharp-pointed sticks of hard wood.

He journeyed southwards two days and two nights along the great straight road, which went through the deep dark forests, over desert places and over the high mountains. And all that time he ate nothing but wild berries, for he had not thought to bring food with him.

While he was yet but a little way from the court of King Arthur, a stranger knight, tall and big, in black armour, had ridden into the hall where sat Gwenevere the queen, with a few of the younger knights and her women. The page of the chamber was serving the queen with wine in a golden goblet richly wrought, which Lancelot had taken from a knight whom he had lately slain.

The stranger knight had alighted before the chair of Gwenevere, and all had seen that full of rage and pride was his look. And he caught sight of the goblet in the hand of Gwenevere, and he snatched it from her, spilling the wine over her dress and dashing it even into her face.

'Now am I well lighted here,' he said, 'for this is the very goblet which thy robber knight Sir Lancelot reaved from my brother, Sir Wilder. And if any of you knights here desire to wrest this goblet from me, or to avenge the insult I have done your queen, let him come to the meadow beside the ford, and I will slay him, ay, if it be that traitor Sir Lancelot himself.'

All the young knights hung their heads as he mounted his horse and insolently rode out of the hall; for it seemed to them that no one would have done so daring an outrage unless, like Sir Garlon whom Balin slew, he fought with evil magic, so that the strength and prowess of the mightiest knight would be put to naught.

Then Perceval entered the hall, and at sight of him upon his rough piebald horse, with its uncouth trappings, and the old and mouldy jerkin upon the youth, the knights and others broke forth in excessive laughter, as much at the sight as to cover their discomfiture and fear of the knight who had just gone.

But Perceval took no note of their laughter, but rode up the hall to where Sir Kay the seneschal stood, wrathful at the outrage on the queen which he had not dared to avenge instantly. And Perceval looked about and saw a knight more richly dressed than the others, and, turning to Kay, he said:

'Tell me, tall man, is that King Arthur yonder?'

'What wouldst thou with Arthur, knave?' asked Kay angrily.

'My mother told me to seek King Arthur,' responded Perceval,' and he will give me the honour of knighthood.'

'By my faith, thou farmer's churl,' said Kay, 'thou art richly equipped indeed with horse and arms to have that honour.'

Thereupon the others shouted with laughter, and commenced to throw sticks at Perceval, or the bones left by the dogs upon the floor.

Then a dwarf pressed forward between the laughing crowd and saluted Perceval. And the lad rejoiced to recognise him. It was Tod, who had been his friend among the trolls of the mountains, and with Tod was his wife. They had come to the court of Arthur, and had craved harbourage there, and the king of his kindness had granted it them. But by reason of the prophecy which the trolls knew of concerning the great renown which Perceval was to gain, they had been dumb of speech since they had last seen the young man.

And now at sight of him their tongues were loosed, and they ran and kissed his feet, and cried together:

'The welcome of Heaven be unto thee, goodly Perceval, son of Earl Evroc! Chief of warriors art thou, and stainless flower of knighthood!'

'Truly,' said Kay wrathfully, 'thou art an ill-conditioned pair, to remain a year mute at King Arthur's court, and now before the face of goodly knights to acclaim this churl with the mouldy coat, chief of warriors and flower of knighthood!'

In his rage he beat Tod the dwarf such a blow, that the poor troll fell senseless to the ground; and the troll-wife he kicked, so that she was dashed among the dogs, who bit her.

'Tall man,' said Perceval, and men marvelled to see the high look on his face and the cold scorn in his eyes, 'I will have vengeance on thee for the insult and ill-treatment thou hast done these two poor dwarfs. But tell me now which of these knights is Arthur?'

'Away with thee,' shouted Kay, enraged. 'If thou wouldst see Arthur, go to the knight with the goblet who waits for thee at the ford, and take the goblet from him, and slay him. Then when thou comest back clad in his armour, we will speak further with thee.'

'I will do so, angry man,' said Perceval, and amid the shouts of laughter and the sneers of the crowd he turned his horse's head and rode out of the hall.

Going to the meadow beside the ford, he saw a knight riding up and down, proud of his strength and valour.

'Tell me, fellow,' said the knight, who bore on his shield the device of a black tower on a red field, 'didst thou see any one coming after me from the court yonder?'

'The tall man that was there,' said Perceval, 'bade me to come to thee, and I am to overthrow thee and to take from thee the goblet, and as for thy horse and thy arms I am to have them myself.'

'Silence, prating fool!' shouted the knight, 'go back to the court and tell Arthur to come himself, or to send a champion to fight me, or I will not wait, and great will be his shame.'

'By my faith,' said Perceval, 'whether thou art willing or unwilling, it is I that will have thy horse and arms and the goblet.'

And he prepared to throw his javelin-sticks.

In a proud rage the knight ran at him with uplifted lance, and struck him a violent blow with the shaft between the neck and the shoulder.

'Haha! lad,' said Perceval, and laughed, 'that was as shrewd a blow as any the trolls gave me when they taught me their staff play; but now I will play with thee in my own way.'

Thereupon he threw one of the pointed sticks at the knight, with such force and with such sureness of aim that it went in between the bars of his vizor and pierced the eye, and entered into the brain of the knight. Whereupon he fell from his horse lifeless.

And it befell that a little while after Perceval had left the court, Sir Owen came in, and was told of the shameful wrong put upon the queen by the unknown knight, and how Sir Kay had sent a mad boy after the knight to slay him.

'Now, by my troth,' said Owen to Kay, 'thou wert a fool to send that foolish lad after the strong knight. For either he will be overthrown, and the knight will think he is truly the champion sent on behalf of the queen, whom the knight so evilly treated, and so an eternal disgrace will light on Arthur and all of us; or, if he is slain, the disgrace will be the same, and the mad young man's life will be thrown away.'

Thereupon Sir Owen made all haste, and rode swiftly to the meadow, armed; but when he reached the place, he found a youth in a mouldy old jerkin pulling a knight in rich armour up and down the grass.

'By'r Lady's name!' cried Sir Owen, 'what do you there, tall youth?'

'This iron coat,' said Perceval, stopping as he spoke, 'will never come off him.'

Owen alighted marvelling, and went to the knight and found that he was dead, and saw the manner of his death, and marvelled the more. He unloosed the knight's armour and gave it to Perceval.

'Here, good soul,' he said, 'are horse and armour for thee. And well hast thou merited them, since thou unarmed hast slain so powerful a knight as this.'

He helped Perceval put on his armour, and when he was fully dressed Owen marvelled to see how nobly he bore himself.

'Now come you with me,' he said, 'and we will go to King Arthur, and you shall have the honour of knighthood from the good king himself.'

'Nay, that will I not,' said Perceval, and mounted the dead knight's horse. 'But take thou this goblet to the queen, and tell the king that wherever I be, I will be his man, to slay all oppressors, to succour the weak and the wronged, and to aid him in whatever knightly enterprise he may desire my aid. But I will not enter his court until I have encountered the tall man there who sent me hither, to revenge upon him the wrong he did to my friends, Tod the dwarf and his wife.'

And with this Perceval said farewell and rode off. Sir Owen went back to the court, and told Arthur and the queen all these things. Men marvelled who the strange young man could be, and many sought Tod and his wife to question them, but nowhere could they be found.

Greater still was their marvelling when, as the weeks passed, knights came and yielded themselves to King Arthur, saying that Perceval had overcome them in knightly combat, and had given them their lives on condition that they went to King Arthur's court and yielded themselves up to him and his mercy. The king and all his court reproved Kay for his churlish manner, and for his having driven so splendid a youth from the court.

And Perceval rode ever forward. He came one day towards the gloaming to a lonely wood in the fenlands, where the wind shivered like the breath of ghosts among the leaves, and there was not a track or trace of man or beast, and no birds piped. And soon, as the wind shrilled, and the rain began to beat down like thin grey spears, he saw a vast castle rise before him, and when he made his way towards the gate, he found the way so overgrown with weeds that hardly could he push his horse between them. And on the very threshold the grass grew thick and high, as if the door had not been opened for a hundred winters.

He battered on the door with the butt of his lance; and long he waited, while the cold rain drove and the wind snarled.

After a little while a voice came from above the gateway, and glancing up he saw a damsel looking through an opening in the battlements.

'Choose thou, chieftain,' said she, 'whether I shall open unto thee without announcing thee, or whether I shall tell her that rules here that thou wishest to enter.'

'Say that I am here,' said Perceval. 'And if she will not house me for the night, then will I go forward.'

Soon the maiden came back and opened the door for him, and his horse she led into the stable, where she fed it; and Perceval she brought into the hall. When he came into the light and looked at the girl, he thought he had never seen another of so fair an aspect.

She had an old garment of satin upon her, which had once been rich, but was now frayed and tattered; and fairer was her skin than the bloom of the rose, and her hair and eyebrows were like the sloe for blackness, and on her cheeks was the redness of poppies. Her eyes were like deep pools in a dark wood. And he thought that, though she was very beautiful, there was great arrogance in her look and cruelty in her lips.

When Perceval went towards the dais of the hall he saw a tall and stately lady in the high seat, old of years and reverend of aspect, though sorrowful. Several handmaids sat beside her, sad of face and tattered of dress. All welcomed him right kindly. Then they sat at meat, and gave the young man the best cheer that they had.

When it was time to go to rest, the lady said:

'It were well for you, chieftain, that you sleep not in this castle.'

'Wherefore,' said Perceval, 'seeing that the storm beats wildly without and there is room here for many?'

'For this reason,' said the lady, 'that I would not that so handsome and kindly a youth as you seem should suffer the doom which must light upon this my castle at dawn.'

'Tell me,' said Perceval, 'what is this castle, and what is the doom you speak of?'

'This castle is named the Castle of Weeds,' replied the lady, 'and the lands about it for many miles belonged to my husband, the Earl Mador. And he was a bold and very valiant man; and he slew Maelond, the eldest son of Domna, the great witch of Glaive, and ever thereafter things were not well with him. For she and her eight evil sisters laid a curse upon him. And that in spite of this, that he slew Maelond in fair fight, for all that he was a false and powerful wizard. And Domna came to my husband, when he was worn with a strange sickness, and as he lay on his deathbed. And she said she should revenge herself upon his daughter and mine, this maiden here, when she shall be full twice nine years of age. And she will be of that age ere dawn to-morrow morn, and at the hour will the fierce Domna and her fearful sisters come, and with tortures slay all that are herein, and take my dear daughter Angharad, and use her cruelly.'